


A Room With a View

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: F/M, Family, First Time, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-04
Updated: 2009-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Room With a View

**Author's Note:**

> Written September 2007, for leiascully's ficwriters_anon challenge; a predominantly House challenge, so Bobbi seemed apposite.

Roberta wakens to a room full of light. Hazy, she turns her head on the pillow. The window outlines impossibly blue sky, sunlit and clear, the green tips of trees whose names are strange to her, the distant slopes of mountains. She smiles, remembering where she is, and reaches across to the nightstand. She hates wearing her glasses, thick, black, ugly things that they are, but without them she sees the world through a permanent fog, and a day like today is too beautiful to miss.

Her outstretched hand brushes bare skin. She snatches it away and bolts upright, clutching the sheet to her as it falls away from her own exposed breast. Her first thought is panic – _Oh, my god, what have I done?!_ – mixed with disbelief – _Oh, my god, I did that?!_ – mixed with pride – _Oh, my god, I did that!_ – mixed with relief – _Oh, thank god, I finally did it!_

Her mother had laughed – laughed so hard she'd almost blown tea out of her nose – when Roberta had announced she was going to Europe after graduation. "You!" she'd said, and "Europe!" And she'd shouted across the table to her husband, "Maurice! You hear this? Your daughter has _plans_ for the summer!"

Roberta's father, who was not actually deaf, merely sometimes wished he was, had peeked over the top of his paper, said, mildly, "So, very nice. You'll send us postcards?" and that had been his sole contribution to the discussion.

Roberta's mother had been a tougher sell. It wasn't safe, she'd said, a girl your age, all on her own – _and why all alone_, she hadn't said, didn't need to, had said many times before, _why does my daughter have no friends?_ – and think of the expense; what will you do there, she'd said, you don't care about art, you don't care about history, or music, or culture, all you ever think about is sports, sports, sports, and you can get sports right here in your own backyard, if sports it has to be then your father will get you season tickets, isn't that right, Maurice? You won't enjoy it (her mother had said), you don't speak the language, you won't like the food, you'll miss your own bed, you'll have nobody to talk to (she'd said), even if you _did_ speak the language, and you'll be miserable, you mark my words.

_Grandma's paying_, Roberta had said, and that had been that. But there have been times, although she would rather die than admit it, when it's seemed that, actually, maybe, her mother had known best all along. Sitting alone night after night, in hotel room after hotel room, perched on one after another of a series of hard, uncomfortable beds, wrapping a quilt around herself for warmth and watching badly-dubbed episodes of _Bonanza_ in desperation for something, anything, to do, she has never felt so lonely in her life. And, god knows, that's saying something, because Roberta is pretty damn lonely pretty much all of the time.

The odds are stacked against her: she's taller than average, smarter than average, sports-mad, awkward, clumsy, tactless and shy. And plain. There's no two ways about that: rake-thin and bony, with a bush of matted black hair, a beak of a nose, and the glasses, those thick, thick, heavy glasses. The girls she'd been friends with in grade school and Junior High pretend not to know her; no boy has ever spared her a second glance. Roberta lives her life in books, in movies, in daydreams, and tells herself over and over that one day, one day all of this is going to change.

She'd thought that Europe would make the difference, weave some kind of magic that would turn her into a different sort of person, the kind of girl that things, _good_ things, happen to. But no: she was plain old Roberta Bernstein, the only under-50 on the tour bus, and everything she was back home in New Jersey she was here as well.

Until today. Until this morning. The day when the change has – at last, at last! – has finally come.

She stretches out a finger and just, just barely, touches the dark hair that spills across the pillow beside her. She needs that reassurance that this is real – although, as she moves, she realises that it's very obvious that _something_ is different, and it's no wonder that all the novels and poems and movies gloss over so many of the grossly human and unromantic details or nobody would ever do this ever again, and that would be the end of the world as we know it. That one cautious touch is as much as she dares. Dreams are dreams, but Roberta lives with reality. She can imagine only too well the look that will be in this boy's eyes when he opens them and sees her. Disbelief, there will be, at the very least; probably outright horror. Well, that moment can wait …

You know what? Why shouldn't it wait forever? Why should _he_ be the one to call the shots? She'd taken control last night, hadn't she? When his friends had clattered out of the bar, whooping and shrieking, and he'd stayed behind, hadn't she taken all her courage into both hands, walked across the room (courage in her hands, heart in her mouth, stomach … stomach twisted into such tight knots that the butterflies in there must be knocking heads together), and slid into the seat across from him?

She had. She still doesn't know quite how she did it, or what possessed her, but she'd done it. And she'd even been the first one to speak. As his head had come up and he'd smiled, polite but distant, she'd heard herself say, "Guess you're not the popular one tonight. Was it something you said?" And he'd grinned and said no, no, the others were going night-surfing, but he didn't want to miss the game –

She'd said "Game?!" sharply, and that had been that. His tiny radio wavered in and out frustratingly, and they caught maybe half of the commentary, ears pressed close, but it was more than enough. They laughed and cheered and groaned together, while the waiter delivered beer after beer after beer to their table and when, later on, the bar began to fill, it was only natural that they should look for someplace quieter and move on. And where better (Roberta had reasoned) than her own hotel room?

The rest was history – or, at least, _now_ it is. It's a bridge crossed, a milestone passed, a page in the books, if by 'books' you mean Roberta's diary, if she ever dares to write this down. They should leave this room untouched for all time as a monument, or raise a plaque at the head of the bed. At the very least, Roberta thinks she'll steal a towel. A memento. Why not?

She slides quietly out of bed, bare feet soundless on the figured carpet, and wraps herself in her robe. She'll head across to the pool, take a swim to clear her head, shower down there. She's less than half unpacked, they're never in one place long enough to make it worthwhile anything more; she can run back up here after breakfast, throw her things in her bag in time to catch the bus. And in the meantime …

In the meantime? She takes a sheet of writing paper from the folder on the nightstand; scribbles a few words, and tucks the note beside the boy's sleeping hand.

_Call me_, is all it says, and, underneath, her number back home. Then she turns toward the door, and walks away, and out of that boy's life.

***


End file.
